


won’t you come with me now the wait is over

by Maple_Fay



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: F/M, Fix-it fic, Post-Endgame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-29
Updated: 2015-01-29
Packaged: 2018-03-09 14:09:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3252662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maple_Fay/pseuds/Maple_Fay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A J/C fix-it story for Endgame, featuring the usual suspects, plus a crowbar, a fatherly Owen Paris, and an AQ-style PTSD therapy. Guest appearance by Beverly Crusher's voice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	won’t you come with me now the wait is over

**Author's Note:**

> I've been reading Ray Bradbury's essays on writing - he suggested that using indignation as fuel for your writing may really help channel your feelings. And since I do feel... indignation... upon thinking of several aspects of "Endgame", I sat down one morning and wrote the following story. I hope you find it enjoyable.
> 
> Title, and general inspiration, comes from Andy Burrows' song "See A Girl".
> 
> (Oh, and I should probably add that a while ago I read a post that complained on the fact that, despite it being the 24th century, nothing had been done in the way of freeing the female population from the confines of brasserie, giving the women a more comfortable alternative. This story explores that idea, however tentatively.)

**_won’t you come with me now the wait is over_ **

Owen Paris steps on board the moment docking procedure is completed, and Kathryn takes what feels like the first deep, peaceful breath in seven years. He touches her shoulder briefly— _we’ll take it from here, Captain_ —and she lets the waves carry her.

Hours later, they’re in her ready room; the Admiral has opened several comm lines, but he’s talking to her, patient, perhaps even too much so.

“Relax, Kathryn. We’re not taking your ship apart. Your EMH will not be reprogrammed, much less deleted. None of your crew is going to face any charges, not unless something grievous or disturbing resurfaces during debriefings. Everything’s _fine_. You’re home.”

That’s the one word she cannot wrap her head around just yet. She sticks to the more familiar ones, like ‘duty’. “Tuvok—“

“—has already been given proper medical attention. He was on the very top of our priority list.” A pause. “Just a spot or two over the Captain.”

She’s instantly nonplussed, hairs standing up on the back of her neck. “I don’t _need_ to be poked and prodded, Admiral—“

“Ah, but I’ve specifically requested the pleasure of your company,” a merry voice comes down the comm link to Starfleet Medical. “Surely you’re not going to deny me that _small_ favor?”

Kathryn smiles despite herself, biting her lip. “You’re dealing out some low blows, Bev.”

Dr. Crusher’s smugness is all but palpable. “Come now, Kathryn. I’ll throw in a facial and a session in the sauna, what do you say? I’ve seen some holoimages of that lovely Borg of yours; surely you won’t tell me it’s been easy to—“

“Alright, already!” she rolls her eyes, slightly disgruntled by Admiral Paris’ presence, and the ease with which Beverly managed to identify her greatest fear—biggest problem—of the moment. _You’ve no idea_ , she wants to say, but doesn’t. Instead, she dutifully makes an appointment for the following morning. Twelve hours left to go.

Owen Paris keeps watching her, attentive, but not overly crowding. “Your crew have been offered lodgings on the half-way station, provided they complete medical evaluation beforehand. You’ll see them all again tomorrow, after your appointment with the CMO, of course.” He looks down at the accommodation roster PADD in his hands, knowing her better than this but still obliged to ask. “Would you like to—?“

She shakes her head, smiling weakly. “It’s very kind of you to offer, though.”

“And I don’t suppose you’re willing to go back to your quarters tonight?” (She never did, not immediately after the mission was over. It’s quite endearing, the fact that he remembers that—and is willing to go through with a ritual they’d established years ago.) “We’ll do it our own way, then. At least you don’t need to worry about preserving replicator energy anymore.”

Which is why, a few minutes later, he leaves her alone with a bottle of vintage Spanish red, a semi-formal uniform jacket in the new color scheme (she’s pretty sure she isn’t going to enjoy the new look), a warm, fuzzy blanket and an access-and-communication block to be overridden only by either of them. “You get some sleep, child,” he says softly, and she almost— _almost_ —weeps as years upon years of exhaustion crash into her. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She thinks she should have more trouble falling asleep after everything that’s happened, but the moment her head touches the pillow, she’s gone.

\--

It lasts for less than three hours.

Neither Owen Paris nor Kathryn herself had accounted for the possibility of a crowbar.

She blinks groggily at the sound of aching metal, and raises herself up on an elbow, irritation igniting inside. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

The door assailant has the decency to look sheepish, pulling at his ear. “I thought—the computer said you were here, but I couldn’t contact you—“

“And there was nothing else for you to do in the middle of the night?” she asks snappishly, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders. In the absence of a robe, she opted to sleep in just her underwear, but she’d be damned if she lets him see that. (Especially since she wore her _good_ uniform yesterday: the one with inbuilt ‘support lining’ that renders brasserie moot. It felt like a good idea at the time. Not so much now.) Hence her obviously foul mood, fueled by lack of sleep and half-burnt adrenaline.

And _knowledge_.

 _This_ is what’s been hanging low on her brow throughout the day, the fight, the journey. The brittle, painful awareness of the fact that she _lost_ , despite what the brass and the crew and her family might say. She didn’t make it. She’s too late—late for the life, and love, that she might have hoped for until very recently.

The crew, after all, comes first.

A treacherous little voice inside her head readily supplies an excuse: they’re not your crew anymore. You’re no longer their captain. Ah, but you’re forgetting—she reminds the voice with bitter satisfaction—he’s already made his choice. There’s nothing else to it. She can’t well _order_ him to call things off with Seven…

“I called things off with Seven. Or, more to the point, she did. Thought you should… that is, you might like to… know.”

She puts her internal monologue on hold, and tries to decipher the meaning behind all this: him _literally_ forcing himself on her, his words coming out all strained and awkward. “And it couldn’t wait until the morning?”

He at least _tries_ to look repentant. “I know, I know—but Kathryn, I couldn’t _find you_.” He shrugs and perches himself on the railing by the sofa, looking down at the tool (the weapon?) in his hands. “We were home, and everything fell apart, and you weren’t there with me. I guess I… panicked.” He shrugs again, offering her a weak, somewhat embarrassed smile. “Not a very flattering quality in a first officer, is it?”

 _But you no longer_ are _one_ , she wants to tell him—and from the way his eyes slide across the slope of her shoulders, he’s probably thinking it, too—but it might be too much too soon, so she keeps the thought to herself, letting it burn a hole in her brain. Resigning herself to yet another sleepless night, she pulls the ugly new jacket on under the cover of her blanket (the fabric is rough, and stretches across her breasts in an unpleasant way) and gets up from the sofa to grab the previously forgotten bottle. “Fancy some PTSD therapy, Alpha Quadrant style?”

“You mean wine and wine, and some wine if that doesn’t work?”

“Yes, that one.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” he fakes a bow and gives her that lopsided grin that must have been produced by years of evolution with that specific set of dimples in mind. “You’re the boss.”

She notices his choice of that word instead of ‘captain’, and lets it slide.

\--

Two more bottles of wine are replicated and emptied, along with a cheese platter and a pound of grapes. Chakotay insists on having salt crackers and she lets him, but refuses to eat any, instead watching him lick his fingers: a half-automatic gesture, nothing to it, but it still makes her feel hot all over.

“I’m sorry about you and Seven,” she tells him eventually; they’re well on their way through the fourth bottle of wine, and she decides to be honest for once. Naturally, he’s skeptical as to her intentions.

“Are you?” There’s a hint of challenge in his voice, slurring slightly over the consonants. “I would’ve thought you disapproved of… well, disapproved.”

She turns away, hiding her burning eyes in the mundane task of retrieving another plateful of crackers from the replicator. “I want you to be happy, Chakotay. I want Seven to be… content, and yes, happy, too, if she can make it.” The next part is going to be hard; she can feel the thorny crown squeezing at her neck, but still braves forward. It _needs_ to be said. “If you make each other happy, you should at least try to—“

“Would you have married us, if we asked?”

“Why not? The Admiral did, apparently.”

She knows he’s only taunting her, trying to force out a stronger reaction; she probably shouldn’t have told him the truth, but she’s tired, so _tired_ , and she didn’t _ask_ for him to be here, all irresistible dimples and lips that embrace the bottle necks with sinful abandon. She should be resting, gathering her strength up for what’s ahead of her instead of breaking every rule, Starfleet or otherwise, by talking to her XO this way and getting steadily drunk.

The talking part may be over now, judging from the way he tenses beside her, his knuckles white against the glass. “And you approve of her decision?” he asks in the end, his voice flat and wooden.

It’s not the question she expected. “I’ve just told you, Chakotay—“

“Yes, I know—you want me to be happy. I’m deeply grateful for that, Kathryn: but I can’t accept the fact that my happiness would come as a result of your sacrifice. Can _you_ accept _that_?”

“What makes this different?” she protests, moving away from him on the sofa, the rolled up blanket separating them like a wall of stone. “You’re still you. Seven is Seven, and probably always will be. I’ve got it from a trustworthy source, Chakotay—you _married_ her, and she was so, _so_ important to you. Why not pursue this now? Why deny yourself a chance for a full, happy life?” The words are daggers, thrown by her own hand, all true, finding their mark in the dim ready room. This is too important to let it rest: she needs him to know this, to understand where she’s coming from, what she wants.

(She wants _him_ , is the sad truth, but the all familiar instinct forces her to put the happiness of others before her own.)

He’s much too silent and still for her liking, so she ventures on, looking for an insight into his head, his heart. “I know this may seem difficult to imagine, but please understand: happiness comes in many forms. You may not see it yet, with Seven, but in time—“

“Let me stop you right there. Time is actually the argument she’d used. That, and opportunity.”

Kathryn frowns at her own clasped hands, unable to face Chakotay just yet. “I’m not sure I follow.”

He sighs, deeply, but not impatiently. “Seven believes that, since the Admiral’s ploy has shortened our journey so significantly, we should make the best possible use of the resources we’ve been so graciously given.” He takes another mouthful of wine, offers the bottle to Kathryn—she accepts it automatically, then passes it back, their fingers brushing lazily in the process. “She believes she should use them primarily to search for the best possible mate. The pool of available candidates did suddenly expand, and rather significantly so…”

Kathryn does look up at him now, gaping inelegantly. “So… basically she wants to go on a prowl, and see what sticks?”

Chakotay nods with mock seriousness, eyes twinkling with mischief. “She informed me, in no uncertain terms, that given the ample time of our acquaintance I present no challenge to her, not in terms other individuals she’s not yet familiar with might. She thinks her study of interpersonal relations may have suffered if we stayed together.”

“I’m really sorry, Chakotay.” The words are sincere—she _does_ want him to be happy—and she hopes he knows it. Still, the childish, wheedling part of her cannot help but ask, “Did she mention anyone specific she might wish to pursue?”

The smirk on Chakotay’s face is positively fiendish. “I do believe I saw Lieutenant Barclay’s dossier on her desk.”

This, here, is the last straw.

Kathryn falls forward, unable to stop the tears running down her face as she laughs breathlessly, her mind trying in vain to wrap itself around the idea of Seven and Reg Barclay. Chakotay joins in, apparently as amused by the prospect as she is. It takes Kathryn quite a while to pull herself together after that particular revelation: but when she finally does, Chakotay is watching her, calm and composed (as composed as one could be, after imbibing two bottles of wine), a barely-there smile playing in the corner of his lips. The silence between them grows heavier, full of something she cannot define—until he reaches out and brushes her tears away with his thumbs, hands cradling her face. “Kathryn? May I ask you something?”

She nods, speechless, utterly captivated by the way he licks his lips: the sign of nervousness.

“You’ve said that happiness comes in many forms. Do you ever wonder what it would be like for you? Because I do. And right now, this instant— _this_ is what happiness is to me.”

“Chakotay—“ she breathes out his name, but he silences her with a finger laid across her lips.

“I know I asked—but you don’t actually need to answer that. I guess I wanted to explain myself… I grow tired sometimes, Kathryn. Tired of waiting. Tired of thinking in future tense instead of the present. Tired of reaching out, and never touching anything other than air. Tired of putting the wellbeing of this crew ahead of my own. And when I’m tired, and I don’t get a chance to sit it out, wait for my senses to come back to me, I become… vulnerable, I guess. Susceptible to suggestions. Easily flattered.” He sees a frown forming on her face, and backtracks hastily. “I’m not trying to belittle what happened with Seven. She’s a lovely girl. She’ll make somebody very happy one day. Hell, she might have made _me_ happy, given enough time and effort—but that’s just it, Kathryn. I don’t want to make an effort. I wish to experience happiness the way my ancestors did: as a gift, a natural state of mind.” His eyes drift down to her lips, still covered by his fingers. “The way it feels when I’m with you.”

Without any conscious thought on her part, Kathryn presses her lips against Chakotay’s skin.

And then, just like that, the storm descends upon them.

His body is a haven to which she finally arrives, welcomed and cherished and loved above all measure. Her body is the sea he sets out to explore with gentle fingers and a greedy mouth, as their clothes drop away and litter the floor. Her voice in his ears sings of years to come, an eternity within their reach. His breath on her skin is the home she’s been unknowingly searching for.

There isn’t much that could be done, given the amount of alcohol they consumed, but at this point it’s enough to feel the warmth of the other’s body, to learn the texture of skin, the way they fit together on the small sofa, long lost pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, the pattern finally complete. Chakotay’s hands cover Kathryn’s body like an armor, a fence protecting her from the world. (She thinks she should probably be offended by his possessiveness, but right now she’s too far gone to care.) He tells her as much, in a voice thick with sleep and love, and she kisses the lines of his tattoo—the first of many fantasies to fulfill.

“Sleep,” she urges him gently, snuggling closer to his back, breathing in the scent of sweat gathering at the nape of his neck. He protests at first—“I want to _see you_ , Kathryn”—but eventually lets her sleep the way she wants to.

“You held me together for seven years,” she explains drowsily, listening to his breath even out. “Let me do this now.”

It is really quite fortunate that he relents, since that way, once Admiral Paris opens the ready room doors in the morning, he’s faced with Chakotay’s partially covered chest, instead of Kathryn’s… well.

“Do I need to clear out my calendar for something?” he asks, not at all surprised by the tableau in front of him. “Or do you not mind keeping it simple, at least for now?”

They really, really don’t.

\--

It turns out that Tom wins the (very old and therefore considerably fattened) betting pool, having betted upon the wedding taking place within twelve hours of their return to the Alpha Quadrant.

He’s still angry with them for not letting him—or anyone else, for that matter—witness the ceremony.

Which is why they have another one, especially for the crew. And a third one for their families and friends Earthside. And a traditional ritual Sekaya insists upon. _And_ a party for ‘Fleet brass, who always appreciate an open bar.

In goes on for almost a month.

They really, really don’t mind.

After all, how many people get to have five _legitimate_ wedding nights?

Not to mention the honeymoons…

But that’s a completely different story.

**/end**


End file.
